


Shadowed Eyes, Red Veins

by Destiny_Apocalypse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Quest: In Hushed Whispers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, budding friendship, very early solavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 12:28:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destiny_Apocalypse/pseuds/Destiny_Apocalypse
Summary: Dorian and Inquisitor Ashanna deal with the aftermath of what happened at Redcliffe





	Shadowed Eyes, Red Veins

Her legs swing over the edge of the dock, just a little too short to reach the edge of the frozen waters. The not-a-Magister was at her side; wrapped head to toe in several layers of robes and furs to protect from the cold. She couldn’t remember what the term was that he corrected her with was; there were so many different human titles to keep track of, and they were different if you were from Fereldan, Orlais, Tevinter… though she supposed It didn’t matter too much. He was Dorian, and right now he was probably the only person who understood what was she was processing. No words passed between them when he found her sitting out alone by the frozen lake and joined her, and none were needed.

He passes her a bottle. She has her vices, though drinking has never been one of them. But after the events of earlier that day she needs something less euphoric than elfroot and more mind numbing. She uncorks it and downs the wine in great heady gulps, letting it warm her belly from the chill.

She knew that what she had gotten into was world changing. One look at the tear in the sky and the people dropping to their feet as she walked by would tell her that. But to see what would happen should she fail was another matter entirely. How many times had she argued with her council; threatened to walk away?

The liquid in the bottle sloshes as her hands shake. Dorian glances over and gives a reassuring pat on her leg.

“Quite the shitshow that was,” he rasps, voice thick from the alcohol.

“Quite,” she agrees in a quiet voice, handing him the bottle.

They sit in silence for some time, passing the drink back and forth. She stares out across the frozen lake, vision bleary and unfocused. She remembers the haunted eyes and frail bodies of her companions that had suffered an entire year during her failure, withered away into almost nothing.

Fiona held immobile by shards of red lyrium piercing and growing inside her body, but still alive and conscious and aware of each agonizing second of her existence.

Blackwall’s muttering and nonsensical words. Dead, dead, dead, he kept repeating.

Leliana’s ruined face from a year of sustained torture; her sharp tongue at their invasive questions.

Solas’ matter-of-factness about the situation. “I am dying, but no matter.”

And then all of them, torn apart by demons in order to give her and Dorian and chance to complete the ritual. She had seen their blood running down the floors of Castle Redcliffe before returning through the rift.

It could still happen. If she was too weak to close the Breach, or if this Elder One unleashed his demonic army on Haven, or-

“Can I ask you a question of a rather…personal nature?” Dorian asks, interrupting her thoughts.

She considers for a moment, reaching for the wine. “I suppose. Depends on the question though.”

“You and that older elf. Solas is his name, yes? Is there something between you two?”

She chokes mid sip; spitting out the wine in her mouth all over her tunic.

“No…?” She answers, attempting to control the slur in her voice. “He’s our Fade adviser. He advises us. On the Fade.”

“Hmm,” he muses, sounding unconvinced.

“Why would you ask such a thing?” She prods him in the ribs with the bottle.

“Something he said back in Redcliffe while you were busy unlocking the doors to the throne room. I do not think he knew I was standing right next to him. I…perhaps it was simply his lyrium addled brain. Forget I asked.”

“No, tell me. What did he say?” She turns to face him. His eyes are downcast, hesitation written all over his face.

“He was speaking in Elven, so it would be difficult for me to parse the entire phrase from memory. But I am certain he referred to you as _vhenan_. I have heard that term before, in Tevinter. It is an endearment in Elven, is it not?”

She stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You must have misheard. The root word _vhen_ is common in much of our language. Just because you overheard a few of your slaves talking in Elvish doesn’t make you an expert on my language.”

His eyes flash at her words, and she can see anger bristling under his skin by the way his mustache twitches, but it ebbs away when he breathes out very slowly.

“That is…a fair point. I apologize then, for making assumptions. I’m sure it was as you say.”

His words both rankle and unnerve her. The former due to the idea that any slaves speaking Elvish were probably stolen from their clans which was a common fear among the Dalish; at each Arlathvhen there was always at least one clan that had lost a member or two to slavers.

The latter due to the idea that he was possibly correct, and that version of Solas had somehow harbored feelings strong enough to last through whatever torture he had suffered in that timeline. True, they had gotten past their rather rocky beginnings and settled into something amicable and beneficial for both of them. She supposed she would even consider him a friend; not just the Inquisitor’s adviser on matters of the arcane.

That was a far cry from a man calling her vhenan in secret.

Images of his face drained of life intrude into her mind, and she buries her face into her hands to try and banish it. They had all died, and suffered, but his utter willingness to just throw his life away so that she might succeed was…

Perhaps she had had enough wine, for the evening. It was not as much of a comfort as she had hoped. Staggering to her feet, she would have slipped on the frozen ground if Dorian had not hauled her back up by the arm, seeing her rise.

“You’re sloshed. Let’s get you back in one piece, shall we?”

She nods and lets him support her weight. Though he had drank as much as she, he was far more experienced in holding his liquor. Standing upright and feeling her head swim and the world turn over a few times, she realizes how drunk and miserable she is.

“I am never drinking again,” she mumbles into Dorian’s collar.

“I keep telling myself that as well, and yet here we are,” he chuckles without humor.

He steers her back into Haven’s gates and to her quarters. She feels her face hitting a soft wool blanket and her boots being removed before sinking into oblivion; so deeply drunk not even the Fade could take hold of her mind this evening.

She sleeps, the memory of shadowed eyes and red veins fading into forgotten memory.


End file.
